


Rape Me

by effydodge



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Mindfuck, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effydodge/pseuds/effydodge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home (post-reichenbach), Sherlock miscalculates with regard to Sebastian and has to play a game to save John's life. Probably not what you're expecting... Or is it? It's not. Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rape Me

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what I just wrote. I'm ... sorry? Possibly?

Sebastian

With Jim, there wasn't much to be gained by asking. Even in his more giving moods, he only offered ephemera from the surface, while his heart echoed sadly, like a void with no center, like a play within a play. Jim barely blinked. That was the difference. When those eyelids fell shut – which was rarely, Jim didn't mind the pain and the twitch of dust at his corneas, he actually enjoyed the burn that came with resisting human instinct, and he vastly preferred both to losing momentary sight – it was always heavy, like a gate being levered shut, always under his precise control.

When he gave himself to Sebastian, he blinked and fidgeted, played a submissive. He only ever played.

Sherlock

Presenting himself to John in disguise had been the first mistake. The poor, limping, no-longer-bachelor had passed out cold when Sherlock's beard came off. But the second mistake was by far the more damaging. He'd underestimated his final target: Sebastian Moran, the sniper who'd responded with swift precision to a mere jerk of Jim's head and then with only tentative finality to a snap of his fingers. The sniper who'd known that dark vacuum of a human being well enough to interpret his every shifting expression. And then John was gone again. Like smoke.

The first text directed Sherlock to the roof of St. Bart's.

He'd gone of course, expecting to jump again, expecting to feel his skull cracking and his mind spilling on the pavement. But there was a spot of concrete stained with Jim's blood (his eyes sought it instinctively) and there on the spot lay a syringe. Tied with a pink ribbon around the cylinder was a note that said: 'Fill Me'.

Sherlock huffed and rolled up his left sleeve, feeling a slight blush sweeping over his cheeks as he did so. Humiliation then. Sebastian wanted him to know this was his fault and why. He tore off the note, letting the wind take it, deciding to trust the needle out of sheer recklessness. He filled it quickly. He was already heading to his lab when he got the next text.

Test the sample then text me the results. SM

He answered twenty minutes later. The cocaine was still in his system, hardly a surprise. And the needle had been clean, which as a point of interest barely stirred his attention.

Ordered back to 221B, he found a steaming cup of tea next to John's chair. A note tied in pink ribbon to the handle said 'Drink Me'. A note pinned to the chair said 'Sit on Me'.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Sherlock muttered dryly, suddenly bored with Sebastian's little game. He was being drugged then, and made to feel sick with regret. He sat in the chair, blowing on the tea until he could take it like a shot. He'd be damned if he was going to wallow any further than he had to. He stared at his own vacant chair, was struck with an odd case of déjà vu that made his palms itch.

He took his medicine and woke up at the pool.

A series of beeps, buzzes and moans were rattling through his drug-addled mind: his phone coming undone under a barrage of texts. He fumbled in his pocket, fingers numb and grasping around, having trouble even locating the seam. He could just make out hard edges with the tips of his fingers before his head fell back. Then he was breathing roughly against the wet tile. He lay there drooling, letting his mind swim through the drugs until he could see and think again.

He woke up staring across the water at the far wall. The pool was glowing a bit too brightly and there in his stomach was that slow, gnawing ache again. He was still suffering the forfeit of staying alive, watching himself unravel. The room echoed with the slap of water. He wanted the sound to become words again, wanted to feel a hard rush of adrenaline.

He was surprised to find the phone still in his hand.

I had to watch this poor idiot grieve you. SM

I had to watch his broken doctor face every sodding day for months while I waited for a dead man to come back to life and tell me to stop. SM

I could hardly take it, like aiming a gun at myself half the time I didn'teven know where to point it. SM

I even prayed you were still alive so I could put the poor bastard out of his misery but now I hardly fucking care. SM

The sonofabitch didn't even tell me and I still had to do that for him. SM

He made me grieve both of you. SM

You can both go to hell. SM

You know which fucking curtain, just do it already so you can have him back. SM

Sherlock shook his head to reorient himself. There were changing rooms lining the pool. His vision wasn't quite responding as he turned his head. John had stood behind one in a semtex coat. It was a few back from the middle, on the opposite side.

He walked carefully, his feet squelching across the damp floor. From a distance, he could see the bare feet and legs. He could see that the obscured body was in some way constricted. He paused to rub at his forehead, then completed the distance in a rush and pulled aside the curtain.

And there was Jim Moriarty. Naked, bound and gagged. His nose appeared to be broken and his eyes were blank and bored as he stared obstinately into Sherlock. There was a crinkle to his eyes after a moment, the passing glimmer of a joke.

There was a pink ribbon tied around Jim's neck like a collar. The note said 'Rape me'.

Jim

Jim shuffled, watching Sherlock's horror and meeting it with a look of unblinking boredom. He cracked his usual, manic, unhappy smile. That coherence with the past seemed to really undo his poor detective. He sharpened to renewed attention, certain now that he wasn't dreaming.

And then he was stepping back, an echo of that man with the gun in his hand, spinning to save his poor John. But he'd been feeling Jim all day. He'd made sure of that. His blood. The empty chair he'd occupied. The game. The reflection of him in the pool where they'd started. A few seconds of shock and thought, body turning in place unconsciously as his mind reeled, and then he relaxed again. He stood up straight. He turned back to him. Oh, his Sherlock. It was like petting a cat, giving this man an acceptable, twisted answer, a solution that worked but still burned. To prevent the death of an innocent man, Sherlock would of course rape a psychotic killer.

He pulled the ribbon from Jim's neck and unknotted the gag. Sherlock knew they were both above this particular game. And the compliment vibrated through Jim's bones on the air of an impatient sigh as the fetters were tossed away. Maybe he was remembering their other games now - their games - his stomach twisting with the same hot heat, the same, unending need that made nothing else feel right.

And then the act of intrusion, the subtle resistance as Jim's muscles loosened and clenched around him. Jim's own moan as Sherlock started stroking him, showing his cold compassion, his ability to loosen a knot by any means.


End file.
